Across the Gulf Country

Hundreds of parrots were sitting on the powerlines in Einasleigh before sunset.

We had arrived that afternoon after turning west onto the Savannah Way, the long touring route that runs across northern Australia. The road into Einasleigh was proper dirt again, with corrugations and a few small water crossings, but by now that no longer felt like a major event. Tyre pressures down, Roger in his element, and on we went. Einasleigh itself was tiny. The pub, a few buildings and the railway line seemed to account for most of it.

We stopped at the two-storey hotel for a beer. A young German backpacker was working behind the bar and appeared completely comfortable with the remoteness. Back at Silk’s Rest, we were the only guests. Our host was a true Aussie legend, with the relaxed manner of someone who knew exactly how this place worked, and he had left wood for the communal firepit. We built what was easily our largest fire of the trip so far, cooked over it and made fresh flatbread. Steph’s campfire expectations shifted upward from that night.

It was a chilled evening: fire, flatbread, a cold night coming and hundreds of parrots settling on the powerline. That was plenty.

A Cold Morning at Einasleigh

The next morning started cold, and we needed the sun to get moving.

We waited for the sun to reach camp, holding coffee and moving chairs into the first strip of warmth. Only days earlier, Cape York had been too hot to sleep. Now neither of us wanted to step out of the sunlight once it arrived.

After a short jungle-gym session, we walked down to Einasleigh Gorge.

Steph took off her shoes and entered the cold water.

I had already showered. That became my official reason for remaining dry.

The better reason was that the water looked very cold and somebody had mentioned freshwater crocodiles.

They are generally much less dangerous to people than saltwater crocodiles and usually avoid confrontation.

They did not know how nervous I was.

The Silence Inside Cobbold Gorge

The drive to Cobbold Gorge was easier than expected. Most of it was sealed, with only the final stretch on rougher dirt, and we arrived after roughly two relaxed hours.

After the quiet road in, Cobbold Village felt surprisingly busy.

Caravans filled the camping area. Tour groups moved between reception, the bistro and the pool. Proper facilities had appeared inside country that had felt nearly empty for days.

We had no idea where everybody had come from.

The village is on private property, and a lot of work had clearly gone into making it function. For lunch, we ordered beef burgers at the bistro. They were among the best we had eaten on the road, surprising given how remote the tourism village felt.

The next morning, I ran around the property and climbed to a lookout before we both entered the infinity pool. The water felt close to an ice bath.

Then we joined the gorge tour.

Our guide, Pete, was a Savannah Guide, part of a guiding network focused on the natural and cultural environments of northern Australia’s tropical savannas. He drove us out in a 4WD bus and led us along the rim, explaining the landscape through the plants, animals and ways people had used what grew there. Some leaves worked like sandpaper. Paperbark could hold water, carry water, help with fire and be used for painting. Certain fruits were useful only after the correct preparation or stage of ripeness, and one plant could apparently be processed into something close to bread. Some plants were traditionally used for fishing too, releasing substances into the water that stunned or killed fish so they could be collected.

I remembered the shape of those lessons more clearly than every plant name.

The walk gave us the gorge from above. Freshwater crocodiles rested below, small enough to appear almost harmless from that distance. The sandstone walls narrowed into a cut that looked far tighter than the broad gorges we had already seen.

Then we boarded the electric boat.

The motor barely disturbed the water. Once the walls closed around us, normal voices felt too loud.

The complete stillness was the part I had not expected.

The closest comparison I could find was a sound studio. Small noises travelled cleanly. Water touched rock. A bird called somewhere beyond the visible opening.

Nobody needed to be told to lower their voice.

Freshwater crocodiles sat along the edges as the boat passed. Pete kept explaining the gorge, but the facts competed with the physical feeling of being inside it.

Of all the information from the tour, that silence is what I remember most clearly.

That evening, we went to the communal fireplace and talked with other travellers. Several of them said we should not miss the Bungle Bungles. We filed that away for later, because the Kimberley region still felt a long way off.

Forsayth and the Savannahlander

We left Cobbold Gorge and returned to the Savannah Way.

The first section to Forsayth was dirt. We stopped there, pumped the tyres back up and made breakfast near the railway station.

The station felt oversized for a place with so little movement around it.

In a normal season, the Savannahlander brings tourists through here in old railmotors on a slow multi-day journey between Cairns and Forsayth, crossing the Tablelands and Gulf country when track conditions allow. Standing beside the quiet platform, it was hard to imagine a train arriving from the coast at all.

Forsayth also had an outdoor gym.

We did not use it.

From there, the road towards Karumba was mostly sealed. It narrowed to a single lane in places, and many bridges allowed only one vehicle at a time, but traffic was light.

In Normanton, we stopped for Krys the Savannah King, the giant crocodile statue in Henry Park. At first it looked like one of those oversized roadside objects Australia enjoys putting in small towns. Then the sign gave it scale: a life-size replica of an 8.63-metre saltwater crocodile shot on the Norman River by Krystina Pawlowski in 1957. Whether or not every old crocodile story in the Gulf is told perfectly, standing beside that shape was a reminder that the warning signs around here were not decoration.

The birdlife changed with the country. Large birds fed beside kangaroo carcasses. Smaller species moved around wetlands and open grass. We could identify very few of them, but even without names the variety was obvious.

Sunset at Karumba

Karumba Sunset Caravan Park was practical rather than memorable.

Boats sat beside many sites. Campers left early to fish and returned talking about barramundi, tides and where they had been on the water. Crocodile warning signs did not seem to reduce the enthusiasm.

We went to the pub at Karumba Point for dinner.

As sunset approached, almost every table gradually turned towards the Gulf. Conversations continued, but attention shifted in the same direction.

The sun dropped over the water, which still felt unusual after so much time on Australia’s east coast.

The food was decent, the drink was cold and the sunset was spectacular enough to explain why everyone was there.

The Keys Inside the Tent

The next morning, we filled the water tank and prepared to leave for Leichhardt Falls.

That was when my stomach dropped.

I looked for the car keys.

I checked the usual places first. Pocket. Table. Fridge area. Front seat.

Nothing.

Then I remembered the side bag attached to the rooftop tent.

I had placed the keys inside it before closing the tent. Afterwards, I had fitted a small lock to secure the tent for travel.

The key for that lock was attached to the car keyring.

For a few seconds, I hoped the sequence had happened differently.

It had not.

The car keys and the lock key were both inside the locked rooftop tent.

My mind moved quickly through unpleasant options. Find bolt cutters. Ask the caravan park for tools. Break the lock. Damage the latch. Explain how a security measure had made the entire vehicle unusable.

Steph stood nearby while I tested the tent latches.

They had a small amount of movement. Probably more than they should have had.

That imperfection saved us.

I pushed one latch hard enough to force it through, lifted the tent slightly and reached the side bag.

The keys were exactly where I had left them.

Slow breath in. Slow breath out.

We introduced additional safeguards before leaving town.

Once the keys were back, we finished the normal jobs: breakfast overlooking the ocean, fuel and a stop at the Friendly Grocer. The supermarket was much better stocked than we expected. Useful detail for next time.

Leichhardt Falls

The Savannah Way stayed sealed until it suddenly did not.

Wetlands near Karumba gave way to open savannah, enormous cattle properties and red dirt. Cattle appeared on the road. One road train passed. Long sections contained nobody else.

Three hours out there felt completely different from three hours driving around Sydney. The road needed enough attention to keep us focused, but still left us able to take in the landscape.

We arrived at Leichhardt Falls around 3 pm.

It was the most spectacular free camp of the trip so far.

We drove onto the rocky shelf and found a position looking directly across the falls. Greg and Ann, whom we recognised from the Cobbold Gorge tour, had also stopped there.

We cooled down briefly near the upper section. Because the river eventually connects to the Gulf, we treated the crocodile risk seriously and kept the splash short.

At sunset, orange and red light moved across the cliffs. Freshwater crocodiles sat on the opposite bank while we cooked chilli con carne.

It was an odd setup.

Our stove, chairs and portable kitchen occupied one side of the river. Crocodiles occupied the other. The falls continued between us as if neither arrangement was unusual.

It was a self-contained camp, so the shower tent and portable toilet came out as well. That part was less scenic, but it had to be done.

Then the wind disappeared.

The midges arrived almost immediately.

The moon rose late and the stars were exceptional. I wanted to remain outside and watch them. At the same time, bites appeared on every exposed area.

For several minutes I tried to appreciate the sky through increasing irritation.

Eventually the insects won.

I escaped into the rooftop tent while one of the best night skies of the trip remained outside.

West Through Burketown

The next morning, I wrote notes over coffee while looking across the falls. A freshwater crocodile rested on the opposite side and somebody fished nearby.

After the previous night’s retreat, the scene looked peaceful again.

We continued to Burketown and stopped at the Burketown Bore. The artesian water emerging there was far beyond bathing temperature. Even a cautious touch was enough to understand why nobody was treating it as a hot thermal pool.

Our original Savannah Way route after Lawn Hill would have continued west through Hells Gate. Flooding and cyclone damage had kept that section closed, but Lawn Hill was already in our plan. Turning south through Gregory made the detour feel less like a detour.

Gregory consisted mainly of the pub, fuel and a busy free camp beside the river. We stopped for lunch, then continued on dirt.

The road alternated between corrugations, floodways and sealed patches that sometimes seemed to begin and end without explanation.

By late afternoon, we reached Boodjamulla (Lawn Hill) National Park. Most travellers around us still called it Lawn Hill, but Boodjamulla is the official name and it sits in Waanyi country.

The Booking Win

Cyclone and flood damage had only recently allowed parts of the national park to reopen. Several walks and access to the upper gorge remained closed.

We had secured only one night inside the park. The next two were booked at Adels Grove, outside the national-park campground.

It felt good to be back in a national-park rhythm after several nights in caravan parks, free camps and private places.

Late that afternoon, we climbed one of the open tracks.

The sign estimated two to three hours. We reached the halfway viewpoint in about thirty-five minutes and wondered who had calibrated the walking time.

We stayed for sunset. Red and orange light spread across the gorge walls as the temperature dropped.

Back at camp, we checked availability again without expecting anything.

Two nights had appeared.

We booked them immediately and cancelled Adels Grove.

It was a small administrative win, but it changed the next two days completely. The rooftop tent could remain open. Roger did not need repacking. We could wake without a departure time.

Gary’s Kayak

The next morning felt close to five degrees.

Steph baked English muffins while the sun warmed the campground. We trained, talked to neighbours and allowed the day to remain slow.

I also used part of the day to prepare new journal chapters.

A couple from Canberra camped nearby offered us their Starlink connection, which was generous even though we did not really need internet.

The husband, Gary, then made the better offer: their inflatable kayak for the next morning.

Gary was outgoing and easy to talk to. By the end of the conversation, we had a plan and no need to inflate our paddleboards.

I still felt nervous when we launched.

Lawn Hill Gorge was freshwater crocodile habitat. Australians often explain that freshwater crocodiles usually avoid people and rarely cause serious incidents if left alone.

The word usually remained noticeable.

We kept looking along the banks to see if we could spot a crocodile. The water was calm. The kayak moved easily between the walls.

No crocodiles appeared.

The waterfalls did.

We slowed near them and let the kayak drift. After days of sealed roads, dirt roads, campsites and practical decisions, moving at water speed felt unusually quiet.

Later, we used another open walking track as a short trail run. The lookouts gave us the falls from above, completing the view we had first seen from the kayak.

Even the cold campground showers felt luxurious because we did not have to set them up ourselves. By then, Lawn Hill had turned out better than either of us expected, and we could easily have stayed longer.

A Proper Lawn Hill Stop

By the end of our third night at Lawn Hill, the changed route made more sense than it had on the map.

The previous week had included the Einasleigh pub and campfire, the organised tour at Cobbold Gorge, Karumba’s sunset, the locked keys, crocodiles at Leichhardt Falls, closed roads and the unexpected extra nights at Lawn Hill.

None of it felt like one uninterrupted adventure. Most days were a mix of driving, fuel, water, tyre pressures, small decisions and countless small moments we would remember.

We were still adjusting to the scale of travelling through the outback.

By Lawn Hill, the long roads and small decisions were starting to feel normal.